


Professional Griefers

by Ringshadow



Series: Studio Killers [1]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Coulson the Killer, M/M, mild AU, pre-SHIELD Clint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-07
Updated: 2013-11-07
Packaged: 2017-12-31 18:14:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1034823
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ringshadow/pseuds/Ringshadow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After an operation that leaves Phil Coulson on an adrenaline high, he hits a nightclub looking for a partner to work it off with. By chance, he finds one in Clint Barton.</p><p>Carbon lacing<br/>Spent shell casings<br/>Photographs that I'm erasing<br/>Bonus lives with pixel screens<br/>Girls with guns on LSD</p>
            </blockquote>





	Professional Griefers

The body fell in a crimson splatter.

It was an … indulgence. He could be neat. Oh, he knew all about being neat, but sometimes, he allowed himself the indulgence of drawing blood. Of using blades. And this is one of those rare jobs he could get away with it.

The memory stick was in his target’s pocket, and he lifted it easily. He wiped the knife off on the body’s shirt and tucked it to the small of his back, sheathing it neatly and walking away, peeling off one his black leather gloves, lifting the bared hand to his earpiece. 

“Target silent.”

 

Debriefing was simple and straightforward, and went down in the back of one of their surveillance vans. Phil Coulson didn’t normally work this kind of job anymore, but it was what he’d originally been brought in to do and he’d been the nearest asset to the problem. Besides, Director Fury knew he needed this sometimes, knew there was really no use in caging a hunter forever and he preferred to be in control of what hunts happened. Phil Coulson was a company man, and Agents who did well got whatever they wanted, within reason.

Coulson wanted to kill people.

In SHIELD this was a strangely easy reward to provide.

 

He stepped out of the surveillance van with one of his vague smiles, walking down the street. The adrenaline still twanged in his veins, eyes still dark and breath still hitching in his lungs. At one point in his life he’d been ashamed of this, when he’d been young and had a Handler still. He’d even tried to back out of his job, asking for a transfer out from being an Operative, he’d been so convinced there was something deeply wrong with him.

And Phil had been assured that yes, it wasn’t normal, but it wasn’t wrong, either. He wasn’t a monster, he was a predator, he was the top tier of the food chain and there wasn’t anything wrong with him feeling it hotter, stronger than most. And he was good at it, very good at it. Hell, they offered him a pay raise to stick with being an Operative.

He traded that pay raise for his choice in work, and the ability to deal with his own aftercare. Because after he did a hit and the endorphins dropped hard, after the adrenaline sang out and liquid heat moved his veins, he wanted a few things in short order. He wanted loud music, he wanted alcohol, and he wanted sex.

Happily these things were even easier to acquire than a body that needed to die.

 

Clint Barton had been attending this dance club for a while. It was almost underground, just public enough to have a sign up, just dirty enough drug deals happened damn near in the open. When he wasn’t working, he came here and stood on the top deck, leaned on the railing and watched the dance floor, let his sharp eyes pick over the crowd and take in all the life around him. He barely even listened to the music.

Then a man came in and he went still, fingers curling where they dangled on the far side of the railing. He’d never seen the guy before, he’d have remembered. It wasn’t the black suit or the open tie over a white shirt, or the fact that he had ten years on most of the crowd. It was how he moved, like a liquid shadow through the crowd, like a ghost, light on his feet as he crossed to the bar and got a drink. Then he was turning on heel, and he looked right at Clint, quirking an eyebrow.

In spite of the distance, the flashing club lighting, nothing could disguise that pitch black hunger. 

Then Clint blinked and the man was gone. Just GONE, and he was left leaning over the railing, hunting for the suit among the ravers, but there was nothing. He may as well have been staring at an illusion, except for the empty shot glass on the bar.

And that? That severely damaged Clint’s calm. No one had done that to him in a long time, just been able to disappear like that, even in a crowd. He was a sniper, keeping eyes on a target was as vital as being able to pull the trigger. The rest of the club carried on oblivious, but he found himself pushing away from the railing and looking around because the room was feeling far too open to be safe. So he moved, heading for a fire escape at the back, trading the pseudo-safety of the crowd for a fast and immediate exit.

He almost wasn’t surprised when a hand closed on the back of his neck. Needless to say he hadn’t heard it and only gotten a flutter of black fabric out of the corner of his eye before the other man was on top of him, then he was slammed against a wall, looking square in the eye of the man who’d been at the bar. Older than him, he wasn’t sure how much older, and up close facts slammed in, that this guy was dressed expensive and smelled of alcohol and very faintly of rust. Blood.

“Going somewhere?” The older man asked, barely over the drone of the electronica, and his voice was like a punch to the gut, all sharp corners and rattled edges, passing under his skin and purring.

“I don’t want trouble.” He heard himself say, swallowing hard, even as his brain lifted enough red flags to alert the moon. Oh yeah, this guy was way farther up the food chain than him, a big fish, a fucking shark in his little pond.

“Somehow I doubt that.” The man smiled, strange, peaceful, and pushed away, considering him. “No. I think you go looking for it.”

“Where the fuck do you get off?” Clint demanded, because fuck if that didn’t cut close to home he didn’t know what did.

The man shrugged. “Here and now, hopefully.” The smile was still there, clashing completely with the strange fucked up eyes.

“Yeah, and you’re just fuckin’ charmin’.” Go Clint, mouth off to the guy who’s likely a high class killer, he fumed at himself. This guy has him completely on edge, for a lot of reasons. He’s off in a strange subtle way that’s getting to him, and he’s not sure if he wants to try to struggle away and bolt, or pull it in and look closer, study the black mirror that makes up his eyes. “What, gunna whisk away my girly sensibilities with a suit an’ a smile? Good fuckin’ luck man.”

 

Phil laughs to himself, watching the target of his attention stare back at him. “No, I was kind of just hoping to fuck you up against this wall, as hard and as fast as I can, because that’s how you like it anyway.”

Boom, on target again, he sees the reaction roll through the guy’s body, a hasty jerk of denial to cover the widening pupils and flick of a pink tongue. Hell, this is blunt even for him but he knows this kid, he was this kid not many years ago. Years of experience has let him be able to pick the monsters and predators and soldiers from the crowds, tell them apart and what he saw the moment they’d locked eyes across this place was familiarity.

And it was so, so much better when he got to be with someone who got it, even if it went unsaid.

“You’re a professional, aren’t you. Major league.” The younger guy finally said, reaching out and grabbing his open tie, pulling him in and staring him dead in the eyes as if hunting for something.

He shrugged, lifting his hands and letting them slide along the kid’s arms, feeling muscle coil there. “Yeah. You contract?”

“Yeah. Minors.”

Phil half laughed, because: bullshit. “Nah. I bet you could be major league.”

Now Clint laughed, pulling him in tight, feeling hard muscle the suit hid and oh shit, weapons, this guy was just off a job. “Complimentin’ me won’t get you in my pants.”

“Really?” He’s pressed in tight enough he can feel the younger hit man’s interest prodding him through his jeans, which is fair because he’s ground up against the kid’s leg. So he pushes in tighter, burying his face into his neck and inhaling, getting sweat and lust and a sharp bright edge of fear, and some cologne that needs to be destroyed because the real scent there is heady enough. Fingers grab at his shoulders, so he turns his head to put his mouth next to a pierced ear, catches the hoop on his tongue before speaking. “Less than an hour ago? I was slitting someone’s throat. Ear to fucking ear.”

“Fuuuuuck.” Clint whined, not able to stop the way his whole body bucked up, mind more than able to supply the details on that, the stranger’s impassive smile breaking into a predatory grin as the knife struck. He gave the tie a yank but the older man was already leaning in, the kiss hard and sloppy, hips rutting into the leg that had neatly slotted between his legs to rub there.

Phil groaned and pushed into the embrace, snarling when his aggression was returned in kind, tongues and teeth warring. They were in a shadowy corner of the top level, around the corner from most of public eye, some strange little extraneous hallway that appeared be there just to service the fire escape. There were bathrooms around that corner and he could hear people moving around less than eight feet away but with the noise and the state of the lights it was as private as they were going to get here, and he wasn’t sure he even cared if they were seen.

He was caught off guard when the kid went for his pants first, yanking the belt undone and loose then fighting with the buttons of his slacks before just diving a hand in to investigate. He didn’t even bother hiding the smirk and snicker when the kid gasped against his mouth, hand grasping him then pulling slow. And that’s nice but not enough, not nearly, he needs body heat wrapped around him and needs to feel another body shake apart around him, it’s the only thing that soothes his hot, hungry nerves after a hit. He returns the favor, getting the kid’s jeans undone and shoving them down along with the boxers he finds there, pushing his shirt up and letting his hands investigate tight hard muscle, the ripples of abs flowing into hips and a cock that’s hot, heavy and glorious in his hand.

Clint broke the kiss and panted for air, hips knocking into a firm, callused hand. Soft skin though, manicured but the danger is right there and so obvious, at least to him since he knows what he’s looking for. And oh fuck but he likes it, he knows this man is trouble, knows he’s dangerous and he wants it. He’s always been the sort to dance with the devil in the pale moonlight and this looks to be as close as he’s going to come without a bet involving golden fiddles. Even better that the man that is pinning him, stroking him is actually nice to look at, strong jaw and quirky smile and fucked-up ocean blue eyes that taunted with their depth. And strength, holy shit strength, hard muscle shoving against him and he was all too willing to concede, let the nameless assassin win.

On that note… “You got a callsign? Handle? Somethin’ I can yell?”

Phil had to consider for a moment, wondering how much that would give away. He had never changed callsigns, in spite of a lot of pressure to do so, but his handler had given it to him and he was damned if he was going to ever part with it. “Kingfisher.”

Yeah, Clint didn’t think he could get harder or hornier. He was wrong. He knew that name, it was a whisper in the underworld, the name of a hitman, but not a normal one no, one rumored to be backed by government funds. Black bag, untouchable, not for sale. If this guy was telling the truth that is, but he’s in no position to question, not with a warm mouth pressed under the hinge of his jaw, nipping and licking, not when a plastic noise sounds off then cool lube slicked fingers are massaging against him, insistent, demanding.

“So who are you then?” Phil murmured, sucking a dark mark just under Clint’s ear, smirking when he feels him relax enough to slowly work one finger in.

“H-h-Hawkeye.” It’s phenomenally hard to say his name (yeah, it’s his name, it’s his name as much as the one he was born with) when a likely-deadly finger is curling just right and hints of grey are fogging at the corners of his vision. Oh, fuck this guy knows what he’s doing.

Phil’s body goes on automatic for a few seconds, brain referencing file trees in his memory, finding what he needs in short order. “Think I’ve read about you. Archer?” Olympic archer, from what he remembered, trick shot, equally talented with guns. Sketchy background, lots of blank spots. And not quite major league but rapidly up and coming.

Clint probably shouldn’t be surprised, but somehow, he is. “Yeah. I never m-miss…!” He chokes out because a second finger has joined the first and oh god he’s gunna die, he’s going to be fucked to death in a dance club.

He almost laughs when the younger man’s voice cuts off, instead he pulls his hand free and moves, spinning Clint and slamming him chest first against the wall. He gets a grunt and some swear words but no protest, so he puts his free arm across Clint’s shoulder blades to keep him there, fingers driving back inside. Clint shifted and crossed his arms above his head on the wall, fingers twitching and curling as Phil stroked inside him with his fingers, mapping out what made him twitch.

“Ready, ready, ‘m ready, come on…” Clint arched, squirming impatiently.

“I do hope you’re telling me the truth.” Phil licked one of his ears. “It’s not in me to be gentle right now.”

“Don’t want gentle.” He grumbled, barely audible over the music of the club, which somehow seemed distant now. Reality had shrunk down to just this spot, just them. He tried to get his peripheral awareness back, then his paranoia was stomped back out by those fingers stroking over his prostate, making his neglected cock jerk once. “Tease, tease, fuckin tease…”

Phil laughed even as he was withdrawing his hand, digging into an inner jacket pocket for a condom (yes, his operation load-out was maybe a bit different, he prepared for aftercare), tearing it with his teeth and watching with hot eyes as the noise sent a shake through Hawkeye. The younger man was mumbling, low and not quite understandable, it all sounded like demands, oh no not requests, it was a chant of need that turned into blurted cussing when Phil ground against him.

“Fuck fuck fuckin fuck just…” And then he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t speak around the dick pushing into his body. Clint trailed into a strangled noise, shoulders shifting against the arm still pinned against them, biting his lower lip. He’d known from touch that the older man wasn’t overly long but he was thick, and he was relentless, and Clint relaxed as much as he could then arched back into it.

“Better?” Phil purred in his ear, breathing hard. Oh, it was for him, something in him was starting to settle, coming down bit by bit, the snapping adrenaline and endorphins finally dropping hard. And Hawkeye felt good around him and against him, strong and muscular but giving up to him, just for now.

“What do you think?” Clint shot back, biting his lower lip and groaning as he rolled his hips, effectively fucking himself on the other’s cock. “You gunna fuck me or are you all talk?”

He wanted to laugh, he really did, but decided the effort was better spent in shoving Clint harder to the wall and moving. Clint moaned and gave a token struggle, kept moving against him but Phil didn’t argue that, god no, it’s so easy to work with. Clint shoved against the wall and fought against him a smirk on his face so he shoved again, the slap of skin actually carrying over the music on the next thrust as he put his weight into it. 

Clint sagged against the wall, head tipping back and to the side when Phil took the opportunity to bite. Warm dangerous hands ran up his arms and laced with his hands, using that to keep him on the wall and he shifted his hands to squeeze Phil’s fingers, keep him there. It’s a gesture maybe too sentimental for a quick and dirty fuck against a night club wall but he can’t even care. The older hitman is a warm solid wall against his back, whole body moving in a continual sinuous ripple as he thrust. He ended up pushing back against him, head tipping back to cradle onto one broad shoulder just so his low moaning can be heard over the music.

The electronic music of the club became dull background music to Phil, who was much more interested in his pulse and the static rush of both of their gasps, and the soft sweet cries whimpering into his ear. He can feel it when his hips angle just right because Hawkeye’s body jumps and shudders and twists against him in a wordless begging cry for more, and all he can do is keep going, squeeze the other’s fingers where they’ve somehow laced with his.

He shifted and turned his head, and for all the awkward angle somehow their lips met, the kiss fierce and hungry. Phil bit into it, feeling the points of Clint’s canines scratch at his lower lip then dig in and draw blood when he dug the toes of his boots in and thrust harder. He could only laugh around his heavy inhales, tongue flicking out to lick away the blood only to have Clint’s tongue beat him to it.

The taste of blood is rarely pleasant but it’s always grounding, and Clint licked back into Phil’s mouth, sucked on his tongue, his cries lost into the embrace as he felt Phil’s thrusts start to shudder and lose the beat, the end obviously creeping up. Phil got one of his hands loose and Clint tried to grab it back then realized what the older man was going to do and let it go, body startling and rolling forward into the sudden grip of a stroking hand.

Phil sagged and pressed against Clint with a shudder and a moan as he started to come, stroking fingers light and insistent, sighing when Clint broke the kiss to keen. All over the sleeve of his suit jacket, he realized after a few moments of fuzzy harsh breathing, as he settled internally, satiated.

Clint was leaning on the wall to stay up, wincing when Phil slowly pulled out. What did stun him is the other man fixed his clothes first then stayed put once they were decent, leaning on his back with his cheek resting on the back of Clint’s neck, breathing softly. The strange moment of lassitude lasted only a few minutes, maybe half a song before he stepped back and Clint was able to turn around, watching the other man adjust himself so well it was like nothing had happened except for a telltale stain up one sleeve.

“Well, ah. This was fun.” Clint said, swallowing roughly.

“Might have to do it again sometime.” Phil replied cheerfully, glancing around and seeing the old fire escape, stepping over and opening the window to step out.

“Are you for fucking real?” Clint demanded, following a few steps.

He could only give an easy smile. “Nowhere near real. I’ll be in touch.” That much said he cheerfully stepped out, swinging over the railing and grabbing the ladder, skidding down the outside rails and just dropping the last six feet down, strolling away.

Clint was hanging out the window, staring after him and wondering if that was foreboding, hot, or both. Both, he decided, pushing away and walking out of the club on slightly wobbly legs.

 

“Coulson.”

Phil looked up from his computer screen. “Sir?”

“We’ve got an indie contractor on the radar, wanted your opinion on whether we should bring him in or consider silencing the problem.” Fury walked in and dropped a file on Phil’s desk, watching as the agent opened it and went still. “Know this one huh?” He landed in a chair across from Phil, watching his expression close. Phil was very good at schooling himself, and often his lack of reaction was as much a tell as anything else.

“Know of him, yes, and met him once. Casual environment, no hostility.” Phil said, staring at the file photo and letting other images freezeframe through his mind, Barton leaning on the railing and pressed against the wall, staring at him after. “Why the personal interest?”

“He did some work for the FBI, made some noise. Now you know I’m not generally one to listen to what the FBI says…”

“I do know.” He tapped the file once with his thumb then sat back. “My opinion? We bring him in.”

“Interesting.” Fury said after a beat. “If I let you make this call, he’s yours.”

Phil just barely smiled. “I accept that. What’s the plan?”

In the end, it was the most satisfying chase Phil had ever gone on. He let Barton notice that he was being tailed on the second day, and stayed on his ass as the archer did what was sensible and bolted after checking with a few of his own sources. And Phil followed, chasing the other across half the country doggedly, contenting himself with glances through binoculars and viewfinders and cameras. After two months of constant travel and little sleep, Barton dug into a corner in an abandoned factory and waited.

So, Phil went in after him.

 

Clint was huddled on a dusty catwalk, ducked under an equally dusty tarp, his favorite bow tucked close and two arrows at hand. He was utterly sick of this shit. Sick and tired. How much more fucking blatant could they have been, he fumed. The unmarked black cars with federal plates, the glimpses of black suited men and sunglasses. It was like every movie trope for “federal agent” boiled down. So he’d grabbed his important shit and ran, and he knew how to run and hide, had done it more than once, but they’d stuck to him and after two months, he was fucking exhausted.

So he waited, to shoot it out if need be. He just wanted it done with.

He caught the flutter of movement, a shadow shifting on the wall, and tracked it. Someone was walking into the building, stopping around a corner from where he could see. Great. Whoever this was had a good idea of where he was. Just getting better and better. Minutes ticked by. Neither of them moved. He snarled and stood, bringing the bow to bear with the arrows lined up, tracking the corner he knew his pursuer was around. “You mind tellin’ me who the FUCK you are?” He screamed. 

Silence and dust motes playing in dim beams of sunlight, then a voice, light and soft and freakily familiar in a way that crawled under Clint’s skin. “A friend.”

“Bull fucking shit.” He spat, not moving, keeping the bow drawn. “And I suppose you just want to talk?”

“Actually…” The movement happened slow, letting him take it in and not immediately let the arrows fly, the familiar voiced stranger stepping around the corner with his hands empty in the air. Clint stared, keeping the bow steady with effort as memory surged over him, hips pacing a dull techno beat, a hot mouth at his neck and dangerous hands on his hips. “I was hoping I could just, oh, fuck you hard and fast against the wall. Because that’s how you like it.”

Clint slowly released the tension on the bowstring, eyes wide. “Kingfisher.” He said, dry mouthed.

“Hawkeye.” He returned evenly. “I’m here to bring you in.”

He pulled the string tight again. “And what am I under arrest for?”

“You aren’t. “ Phil kept walking, slowly, hands in the air. “I want to recruit you.”

There was a tense silence, then he sighed and released the string again, returning the arrows to his quiver as he rolled over that in his mind. Big league shark wants company, interesting. “Told you, I’m minors.”

“And I’m here to promote you to the majors. Come on, what’s the worst that could happen?” He was almost directly under the catwalk now, looking up and watching Clint shift, their eyes locked now.

“So you want me to work for you.” He rested his forearms on the railing of the catwalk, hands laced together, smirking when that brushed dust to fall and ghost onto Phil’s dark suit. “Gotta catch me first. Sir.”

Phil let his grin show. “I thought you’d never ask.”


End file.
